


Blood and Bone

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-02
Updated: 2007-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8702128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: "Dean puts his palm on the back of Sam's neck. Too gentle, like always, too curling and intimate for brothers."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** Blood and Bone  
**Word Count:** ~ 1,300  
**Warnings/Rating:** Wincest. Porniness. Strangely pretentious, disjointed prose.  
**Spoilers:** Specific event of "In My Time of Dying", general flavor of Season 2 Sam-and-Dean interaction.  
**A/N:** I don't know how I feel about this one, it was kind of a lot like pulling teeth, but here I am posting before I change my mind. [ ](http://txtequilanights.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://txtequilanights.livejournal.com/)**txtequilanights** should receive a shipment of pre-oiled slave boys for her immediate and awesome beta-fu upon my frantic "OH MY GOD, ARE YOU THERE?!" email and general hand-holding and dealing-with-my-flail. *smishes her*  
  
  
 

**I.**  
_"Touch"_

  
Dean puts his palm on the back of Sam's neck. Too gentle, like always, too curling and intimate for brothers. The callus at the side of Dean's thumb strokes just one way, once, along Sam's hairline.   
  
Dean nods, says, "Awesome. Let's roll, Sammy," and squeezes Sam's neck firmly. That's when Sam realizes he's agreed to go do something, somewhere, and all he can think about is Dean's rough thumb rubbing over the soft hair behind his ear.  
  
This is not the way it's supposed to go. But Sam can't imagine any other potential outcome, any other solution to the equation of Sam plus Dean. And when the hell have things ever gone the way they were supposed to?   
  
Sam wonders which one of them will crack first, both pushed so far beyond the breaking point already. When have they ever given up, given _in_ , easily? Even to each other.   
  
Especially to each other.   
  
  
 

**II.**   
_"Shouldn't"_

  
They're not drunk when it happens for the first time.   
  
Dean would think, if he'd ever thought about this at all (which he hadn't, he _hadn't_ ), that they would be drunk or something but they're both stone cold sober and that makes it worse somehow, to have nothing to blame this on. Just them. Only them. Dean and Sam. Always making the worst possible choice.   
  
Dad's dead and no one will ever know. Dad is dead and no one knows them for 200 miles in every direction.  
  
Sam's hands are huge and rough on Dean’s shoulder, at the small of his back. Sam's mouth is open and wet against Dean's and Dean can't even muster up the energy to sweet-talk waitresses and motel clerks because everything that doesn't start with "Dad is dead and Sammy is the only reason for anything anymore" feels like a heavy, horrible lie -- a mortal sin. All they have is each other and so why not this too? Why not this, why not, why not, when it feels this good to have someone ( _Sam_ ) touch him this way. Why not, even if they shouldn't, if _Dean_ shouldn't ever (have even thought about this, _ever_ , never mind over and over again), when their whole lives are just a series of "shouldn't"s all strung together like prayer beads.   
  
Mother, father, girlfriend shouldn't die at the hands of a demon. Ghosts, monsters, shouldn't be real. A soft moan shouldn't be the noise Dean makes as he drops to his knees and -- shouldn't -- take Sam's hard cock into his mouth and suck, eyes closing at the hot, bitter taste of him. Sam's hands shouldn't come to rest on Dean's head like absolution and it shouldn't feel so good and yes.   
  
Shouldn't.   
  
If Dean thinks it enough, it just becomes another meaningless word, sounds he makes with his mouth, and Dean's always preferred action to talk anyway. And he shouldn't do this, but he does, because Dean will shatter into countless pieces, broken glass tinkling onto the ground, if he doesn't make Sam come as soon and as hard as possible.   
  
  
 

**III.**  
_"Cartography"_

  
There is an amoeba of merged freckles on the back of Dean's right thigh. Sam bites and sucks at it until it's darker, redder, until Dean's squirming and his voice goes low enough to be more of a sensation rumbling up through Sam's hands than a sound.  
  
"You about done? Gonna fuck me anytime this year?"  
  
"Thinkin' about it." Sam lands a sharp bite to the curve where Dean's leg swells up to his ass and laughs when Dean chokes on his come-back. The sweat that beads across the nape of Dean's neck tastes sweet when Sam covers Dean's body with his own and licks him there.  
  
There is a sound Dean makes - arrhythmic, voiceless and breathy - when Sam is finally seated fully within him, balls pressed up against Dean's heat. Sam thought he could have catalogued every noise Dean's ever made, but he never heard that one until this.  
  
But the way Dean says his name, says, "Sam. Sammy. Sam, _God_ ," is somehow just the same as always.  
  
  
 

**IV.**  
_"Be"_

  
Every single time Dean feels his brother's mouth against his -- every time Sam's tongue slicks past Dean's lips, every time Sam's cock grinds up against Dean's and Sam moans into his mouth -- Dean feels that uneasy, queasy roil in his stomach that says, "My baby brother. Can't do this." But then he is and they are and they just do it, they just _be_ who, and what, they are.   
  
Sam kisses just like he bitches. All short, laser-sharp bites and rough, knowing licks. Knowing just where to go, just how to tilt and then _push_ with precise accuracy, to get in under Dean's defenses.   
  
  
 

**V.**  
_"Escalate"_

  
It makes Sam dizzy, all this want he feels, always fit to burst through the surface of him after being denied for so long. All the want he feels from Dean, rolling back at him in scorching waves. Sam will be mid-sentence, talking about a case or complaining about Dean's music, and look up. He'll catch Dean staring at his mouth as it moves and Sam will stutter, trip over his carefully crafted words for a moment, a sick wave of heat blooming in the center of his gut, sending red tendrils up through his spine and into his brain. Clouding his thoughts and making his intentions bleed crimson.  
  
They fuck like they spar. Competitive and dirty. Taking turns at ratcheting up the stakes, huffing laughter, grunting each other's names like curses. Dean pushes. In. Closer, harder, forcing Sam to give ground and then hovering, hanging back. Waiting for the perfect moment to go in for the kill with precise accuracy, to get in under Sam's defenses.  
  
  
 

**VI.**  
_"Debride"_

  
If anything, this -- skin and sweat and come between them in each beat of their blood -- makes it worse. The desperate, empty _twist_ of Don't Leave Me, Keep You Safe, Mine. Every shadow, every stranger, threatens to take Sam away from him and Dean wants to push him away and wrap him up close. Ends up acting like an asshole and trying to pull in the circle of _Winchester_ tight enough to suffocate.  
  
Sam punctures him, rips up his silk-thin walls, over and over. Tearing out awful naked truths like infected viscera and laying Dean bare. Aching with streaks of white-hot pain, scraped clean and bleeding bright. Raw and open and able to heal, ready to become just another scar among all the others.  
  
  
 

**VII.**  
_"Belong"_

  
Sam remembers. Dimly, with that dreamlike quality faded memories get, frayed around the edges and maybe-not-quite-almost real like an imagined something, not an event in one's own life. But Sam remembers.   
  
He remembers being very young and very small in a huge motel bed, feet nowhere _near_ the edge -- never mind hanging half-off like they have since he was fifteen -- and bleachy sheets scratching against his fingertips as he rub, rub, rubbed out a rhythm of comfort in the dark. He remembers the heat and familiarity and comfort of Dean, his indestructible big brother in flannel Spiderman pajamas, curled up behind him, arms tight around Sam's chest and breath hot and ticklish against Sam's hair.   
  
Sam remembers that it didn't feel like an accident. Or a one-time thing. He remembers that it was the way they slept. That when Dean was too young to be embarrassed about it, he slept clutching Sam, practically encircling his small body with his only-slightly-larger own.  
  
Sam remembers and then wonders how it stopped. _Why_ it stopped.  
  
And then Sam thinks, _I have always been his._


End file.
